


The Dogs of War

by Jenksel



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Eve & Jenkins bonding, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shipathon18, The Librarians Shipathon 2018, War Stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 04:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: Eve has seen that look on Jenkins's face before, and she's determined to do something about it.





	The Dogs of War

Eve was on a solo mission.

She was armed only with two steaming mugs of tea, the little paper tags fluttering on the ends of their strings as she walked briskly down the hallway from the kitchen to the workroom.  She had to use tea bags, she couldn’t make tea worth crap using tea leaves, but she didn’t think he would mind very much under the circumstances. 

“Jenkins!” she called out brightly as she went straight to his desk.  The neatly-dressed Caretaker didn’t hear her at all.  He continued to stare into empty space as he absently nibbled on the end of an old-fashioned nib pen.  Baird narrowed her eyes with concern; she had seen that same look on the faces of more soldiers than she could even count anymore—the classic ‘thousand yard stare’ of a soldier who has seen combat.  Jenkins had been staring off and on like that since yesterday, and the Guardian had quickly picked up on it.  She knew all too well what it meant, and she knew what she needed to do. 

Eve placed herself directly in front of him and cleared her throat loudly.

“ _Jenkins_?”

He jumped a bit at the sound of her voice, blinked his eyes owlishly a few times and looked surprised to see her standing in front of his high oak desk. 

“Colonel Baird?” he said, momentarily confused.  He quickly pulled himself together.

“Colonel Baird!” he repeated, his tone much more firm and decisive as he dropped his pen and began busily straightening papers.  “My apologies, Colonel, I didn’t hear you come in.  You seem to have caught me gathering a rather large quantity of wool.  Was there something you needed?”  Eve set one of the mugs down on his desk.

“Yes; I need you to have some tea with me.”  Immediately she saw his defenses go up.  _Sly old fox_ , she thought.  _I guess that’s what happens when you do something out of character, Eve, like bring him tea just out of the blue like this._

“You looked like you needed a break,” she continued, undaunted.  “And after spending all day by myself while everyone else is in Rome, I’m ready for some human contact.”  Jenkins warily picked up the mug of tea and removed the tea bag.  He couldn’t keep a brief look of disdain from flashing across his face as he examined the soggy bag of brown pulp at the end of the string.

“Sorry,” she offered sincerely.  “I know you prefer tea made with whole leaves, but...”

“No, no—not at all,” he said graciously, taking a conspicuously large sip and forcing a smile to his lips.  “Tea bags are perfectly acceptable, I assure you, Colonel.” 

“You lie like a cheap rug, Skip,” Baird said, touched by his gallantry.  She removed the bag from her mug and dropped it into the wastepaper basket with a dull-sounding splat, then gave him a teasing look.  “But it’s one of your most endearing qualities.”  She took a sip of her own tea and wrinkled her nose at the bitterness of it.  

“Ugh!  That’s _awful_!” she said.  Jenkins couldn’t repress a soft chuckle.

“Perhaps some sugar would help?” he suggested.  “I keep a box of sugar cubes here in my desk—as treats for Franklin, you understand.” He leaned over and pulled out a tin box and opened it, held it out for her to help herself. Eve took two.  Jenkins took six cubes. 

They were silent for a couple of minutes as they stirred the sugar into their mugs.  Eve flicked an assessing glance at the Caretaker.  She hadn’t sprung any nasty surprises on him with the tea.  He was still wary, but more relaxed now, more receptive, less suspicious. 

_Go time._

“Can I share something with you, Jenkins?” she asked.  Jenkins slowly placed his tea on the desk.

“Of course, Colonel,” he answered, face carefully neutral. 

“I was driving the station wagon the other day,” she said, studiously avoiding his eyes.  “I found myself following a pickup truck.  A Toyota.  There was a guy riding in the bed.  And all of a sudden...I was back in Iraq.  Baghdad.  March 21, 2005.”  She played with her tea as she remembered the day, slowly turning the heavy mug on the desktop.

“That was the first time I ever killed an enemy combatant in wartime.”

She knew she had his full attention now.  Jenkins quietly straightened in his chair.  He remained silent, his piercing brown eyes intently focused on her. 

“This all happened long before I joined NATO,” she said.  “I was in the army.  A buddy and me were driving a truckload of supplies in a convoy through the city from Baghdad International to the Green Zone.”  Becoming caught up again in the memories of that day, her expression became troubled,

“All of a sudden this pickup truck came from nowhere and cut in between us and supply truck in front of us.  Just some dirty, dusty, beat up piece of shit Toyota.  I was in the cab of our truck, up high, driving, so I could see down into the bed of the pickup.  It had something in it, all covered with a tarp.  Before we knew it the tarp went back and an insurgent with a ratty-assed AK-47 sat up and started firing at us.” 

Eve stopped turning the mug, finding herself again in the cab of the supply truck, dodging shards of glass from the windshield, .30 caliber slugs ripping past her head. 

“There was so much noise—gunfire, everyone was screaming and yelling—us in English, him in Arabic.  Glass everywhere, the smell of gunpowder.  I was trying like hell to keep our truck on the road.  I don’t even remember drawing my weapon.”  Eve stopped for a moment, rubbed her hand over the lower part of her face.  She still hadn’t looked up from her tea.

“But I remember the look in that guy’s eyes.  I looked _right_ into his eyes, Jenkins, and he was _scared_.  He was just a kid, he couldn’t have been more than 18 or 20 years old and he was scared out of his mind.  I was scared out of my mind, too, and I pulled the trigger.” 

Eve looked away from the desk, blinked against the tears now forming in her eyes as she once again saw the cloud of blood and tissue explode from the insurgent’s chest, the shock in his eyes as he realized that he had been hit.  That he was going to die. 

Baird dragged her attention back to the present and turned to Jenkins, this time meeting his gaze.  His dark eyes were filled with understanding and empathy. 

“I hit him square in the chest.  Considering all the chaos, it must’ve been the luckiest shot in the world.  He just dropped.  The guy driving the pickup lost control and ran off the road and rolled it over.  He died, too.  Everything happened so fast, it was all over in _seconds_...” she finished, her voice with an edge of roughness to it.  “But at the same time it seemed like it would _never_ end.  Every time I see a Toyota pickup truck now, I automatically remember that day.  I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.”

Guardian and Caretaker sat silently for several minutes, mindlessly sipping their lukewarm tea.  Jenkins took a deep, soundless breath.

“How did you know?” he asked, softly.  Eve gave him a small smile.

“It takes one to know one, Skip,” she said quietly.  “I know that look when I see it.  When I saw it on you, I knew you were remembering things you wish you could forget.”  He returned her smile with a tiny lopsided one of his own.

“Indeed,” he replied, his voice low and hushed, as though speaking of something holy.  He didn’t say anything else for several minutes, and Eve let him be, content to wait until he was ready to accept her invitation, hoping fervently that he would.  Jenkins stared into the now-cold tea clutched in his large hands. 

“I was 15 years old the very first time I rode into battle.  June 11, in the year 488.  I was absolutely _terrified_.”  Jenkins spoke barely above a whisper.  He lifted eyes filled with sorrow bordering on shame to stare yet again at a point in the far distant past.

“I killed my first...’enemy combatant’ that day, as you call them.  He wasn’t much older than myself, really.  My sword happened to catch him right in the throat.  A lucky strike, no more.  There was _so_ much blood, all over my horse, all over me— _his_ blood.”  Jenkins’s face took on an expression of the bewilderment and horror felt by his 15-year old self centuries ago.

“I was so sickened by what I had done I actually vomited, right there on the battlefield.  I got off of my horse and ran to his side, looked into _his_ eyes as he died.  I kept telling him that I was sorry.  _So sorry_!  I begged his forgiveness.”  He shook his head sadly.

“My father saw it all and was _furious_ with me.  He thought I was weak, a coward, for feeling remorse at killing the enemy.”  The old knight dropped his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I…saw some boys playing in the park yesterday.  They were ‘sword-fighting’ with sticks.  One struck the other and he cried out.  I don’t know why, but everything just…flooded back…”  The immortal sighed.

“That’s one of the reasons why I stopped leaving the Library unless I had to,” he said.  “It seemed as though no matter where I went, something would remind me of...death.”  He pulled himself ramrod-straight in his chair, his face suddenly hard, and began fussing again with the papers on his desk. 

“I’ve never spoken a word of that day to anyone until now, not even to Cassandra,” he said, a note of self-recrimination in his voice.

Baird had a hard lump in her throat.  She wanted nothing more than to go over and give this man a hug, to comfort him, to receive comfort _from_ him in return, but she held herself back.  It wasn’t time for that, not yet.  She stood and reached across the desk to lay her hand on one of his.  Jenkins looked up at her.

“I say we forget all about this _god-awful_ tea and go hang out by the Fountain of Youth for a while,” she said kindly, hopefully.  “Maybe steal ourselves a couple of those fancy craft beers that Stone has stashed there.  Just…talk for a while.  Just me and you.  A couple of old soldiers trading stories.” 

She squeezed his hand encouragingly.  “Whaddya say, Skip?”

A look of relief washed over the Caretaker’s face.  Jenkins took a breath and hesitated, then nodded his silver head almost shyly.  He held onto the Guardian’s hand as he stood and stepped out from behind his desk.  As soon as he was standing next to her, he lifted her hand slightly and bent over it, barely brushing the backs of her knuckles with his soft, warm lips.

“Thank you, Eve,” he said solemnly as he straightened again, looking directly into her deep blue eyes.  “For caring.  About this _very_ old soldier.  You’re a good friend, and I am very grateful.”  Eve smiled and squeezed his hand again.

“Let’s go, Skip.  Those fancy beers aren’t gonna drink themselves, you know!”  Jenkins smiled warmly in reply and offered his arm to her.

 _Mission accomplished_ , the Guardian thought with subdued satisfaction as she and the Caretaker walked arm in arm to the Fountain of Youth.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Shipathon Rare-Pair Week, and thanks for reading!


End file.
